


Zenith, Nadir

by tookumade



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tookumade/pseuds/tookumade
Summary: A former god realises that it's time to say goodbye.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plumtrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumtrees/gifts).



> [looks at calendar, promptly sets calendar on fire]  
> A supersupersuper belated birthday with apologies shout-out to my dear Mori - you're one of the kindest and most supportive people I've come across in this fandom, and I admire you so much and I am so grateful to be able to call you a friend. I hope you enjoy this fic.  
> PS. I know very very little about rivers and I think it's heckin' obvious

Matsukawa is a river god.  
  
It is undisputed fact, as true as the sky is blue, and Oikawa is a volleyball nerd, and Iwaizumi’s favourite food is agedashi tofu. No one questions this, and accepts it readily, and it has been that way since his first day of senior high school: _Matsukawa, the really tall guy on the volleyball team; Matsukawa-kun’s uniform doesn’t really suit him, does it?; Matsukawa-kun looks intimidating, but he’s actually pretty nice; Matsukawa, the river god._  
  
“Hey, Mattsun?” says Oikawa towards the end of their first year, as he and Iwaizumi join Matsukawa and Hanamaki at their usual spot in one of the school gardens for lunch. He looks guilty. Iwaizumi just gives a small, impatient sigh.  
  
“Give me a clue,” says Matsukawa through a mouthful of rice from his bento. “Just one little clue.”  
  
“It happened yesterday afternoon,” says Iwaizumi simply, and Oikawa bristles at him.  
  
“Yesterday,” Matsukawa repeats. He swallows his rice. “So, you two… were walking home by the river, Oikawa was tossing a volleyball around, something happened, and now I have a ball to retrieve.”  
  
“Nice,” says Iwaizumi with an impressed nod.  
  
“If Iwa-chan hadn’t _elbowed_ me, it wouldn’t have happened!” says Oikawa. “The river washed it away _really_ quickly. Sorry, Mattsun. I’ll buy you a snack? Or, Iwa-chan will, anyway.”  
  
“Oi.”  
  
Matsukawa just waves his hand at him, smiling a little. “No need. I’ll get it after school.”  
  
“Thank youuu!” says Oikawa.  
  
“Nothing at all? What a nice river god,” Hanamaki muses through the straw of his juice box. “Aren’t we supposed to make human sacrifices in order to appease you, or something?”  
  
“Very funny,” says Oikawa sarcastically, pulling a face at him.  
  
“Hey, you’ll note that I never said to sacrifice _you_ specifically.”  
  
Matsukawa snorts. “I don’t know about the past, but I can tell you now with complete certainty that human sacrifices will put me off wanting to help anyone.”  
  
“You’re probably a terrible god, then,” says Hanamaki. He swats away the energy bar wrappers that Matsukawa and Oikawa both throw at him, grinning.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The next morning, Oikawa delightedly finds his volleyball sitting beside his shoe locker with a post-it note stuck to it that reads, “ _Be more careful, doofus. –Matsu_ ” along with a drawn smiley face with its tongue sticking out.  
  
Matsukawa gets a lot of requests like Oikawa’s. Most of the time, they’re for simple things like items falling into the river (“You won’t _believe_ how many sports things people accidentally drop in, what the _hell_.”), but there are the rare occasions that ask for much more of him—lowering the river levels when they get too high in order to prevent flooding, for one example. People falling in and needing rescuing, for another. The signs alongside the river and on the bridges cautioning people about this are faded and almost unreadable, because Matsukawa always manages to realise and save them in time, to the point of there barely being any use for the signs anymore—but there’s quite a difference between saving people and retrieving inanimate objects.  
  
“Do you reckon,” Hanamaki is saying halfway through their second year, as he and Matsukawa walk through one of the school corridors after school, on their way to volleyball training, “that you get so many retrieval requests because people know they can just ask you for help, so they can afford to get careless around the river? Sort of like the reason why the warning signs are so faded now? The local council’s gotten slack thanks to you being a superhero.”  
  
Matsukawa raises his eyebrows and smiles a little. “I’m no superhero. But I… didn’t think about that. It’s possible, I guess?”  
  
“What an occupational hazard,” says Hanamaki. “People taking advantage of your kindness.”  
  
“I don’t mind.”  
  
“Really? All those errands don’t get even a _little_ bit annoying? Retrieving stuff, I mean, not rescuing people.”  
  
“It’s… well…” Matsukawa scratches his neck. “Sometimes? Just a bit? Kind of? I mean, it’s not a big deal, but—”  
  
“ _Ohh_.” Hanamaki nods knowingly. “So you’re human after all.”  
  
Matsukawa jostles him good-naturedly. “Why am I friends with you?”  
  
“Oh, Matsukawa-kun?” They stop and turn to see the vice-principal poking his head out from his office they had just passed. “I received a call from the mayor this morning—she says that the river is starting to overflow from all the heavy rain we’ve been having lately, and she was hoping you would be able to do something about it. Could we leave that to you?”  
  
“Of course,” says Matsukawa, polite. “I’ll go after practice today.”  
  
“I’ll let her know. Thank you.”  
  
As the vice-principal closes the door and they resume walking down the corridor, Hanamaki says thoughtfully, “It’s that time of year again, huh?”  
  
“The river overflowing from all the rain? Looks like it…” When Hanamaki gives Matsukawa a pointed look, Matsukawa smiles slightly and says, “It’s fine” without even looking at him.  
  
“Okay, river god,” says Hanamaki, nudging him.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
By the next morning, everyone finds that the river is back to its normal level again. It happens three more times over the course of the autumn and winter. Apparently, the last time it overflowed and flooded the area was a little over ten years ago. Hanamaki supposes that Matsukawa as a young kid, like any other young kids, could hardly move about with much grace, so it probably took him a few years of growing up in order to ease into his role of the river god. The thought makes him smile a little.  
  
And makes him more curious, too.  
  
It’s one day near the start of their third year at high school when he and Matsukawa are studying together at Matsukawa’s house, that Hanamaki, blunt as he could be sometimes, stops writing and asks, “Why does a river god play volleyball?”  
  
“Why not?” says Matsukawa without missing a beat.  
  
Hanamaki squints at him, watching as Matsukawa continues writing in his notebook, watching as he struggles to fight back a grin. When Hanamaki gives a loud and exaggerated sigh, Matsukawa finally succumbs to laughter.  
  
“Why does a river god like cheese-filled hamburg steaks?” Hanamaki asks as he gently lobs his eraser in Matsukawa’s direction. It bounces off his head. “Why does a river god like listening to soft rock music?”  
  
Matsukawa picks the eraser up and throws it back at him, still grinning. “Do your homework.”  
  
He resumes his writing, but Hanamaki doesn’t, instead choosing to quietly observe him and avoid his Japanese history essay for while longer. There’s an easy sort of elegance that Matsukawa carries in most of what he does—in the way he goes about his daily life, the way he takes on every request that involves the river, the way he holds himself up on the court during volleyball training or matches. As Hanamaki watches him run his long fingers across a page of his textbook, guiding his eyes through a paragraph, he wonders how much of this easy elegance comes from his divinity, and how much of it simply comes from Matsukawa being _Matsukawa_.  
  
“Why are you the river god?”  
  
Matsukawa looks up at Hanamaki again, now with a curious sort of smile on his face. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”  
  
“I mean, like…” Hanamaki waves his hand vaguely. “Okay, fine, not a good question. What about: _how_ are you the river god?”  
  
“Be more specific.”  
  
“Why are you so difficult? Are all gods as snarky as you?” Hanamaki sighs and spins his pen between his fingers. “All right… how did you _become_ the river god?”  
  
“Hmm…” says Matsukawa as he continues to write in his notebook. For a moment, Hanamaki thinks he’s going to ignore his questions completely, but then he stops writing, and replies in a mumble more than anything, “I was just born as one, I guess. It was a really long time ago.”  
  
“What do you mean? How long ago were you _born?_ ”  
  
“As a river god? More years than I can count.”  
  
Hanamaki stops spinning his pen and frowns. “So you haven’t always been a human? Is that a recent thing?”  
  
“Relatively recent, yeah. I’m younger than you, after all.”  
  
“Why are you a human?” When Matsukawa is silent for a long pause, Hanamaki offers, “Is it like… reincarnation or something?”  
  
“I don’t know. Maybe?” says Matsukawa, staring down at his notebook page and tapping it with the end of his pen absently. “I remember I had a fight with some other gods. There was a huge disagreement, but I don’t really remember the details. I just know that I was exiled, probably replaced, and then sent to Earth to live as a mortal—as a human.”  
  
“Must’ve been a hell of an argument if you were _exiled_ for it.”  
  
Matsukawa shrugs. “We’re gods. Our egos can be pretty crazy.”  
  
“Where were you exiled from?”  
  
There is another pause. Matsukawa stops tapping his pen and frowns, as though trying to recall a tiny, long-ago detail.  
  
“I don’t… remember…” he says slowly, quietly. “What the hell, why don’t I remember?”  
  
“It’s probably just a,” Hanamaki starts, hesitates, casts around for a idea, “glitch? Or something? When you were reincarnated or… I don’t know.”  
  
“But I remember the fact that I had a fight with some gods, so how come I don’t remember something as important as _where I was exiled from?_ ” says Matsukawa, frowning. “That’s a hell of a glitch, isn’t it?”  
  
“Maybe it’s not actually that important.”  
  
The words tumble from Hanamaki’s mouth before he can stop them. Matsukawa stares at him; Hanamaki’s eyes widen.  
  
“I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”  
  
“No, it’s…” Matsukawa pauses, blinks, looks back down at his textbook. “Maybe you’re right.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Um… forget about it. I think it’s something I need think about a little more, so… forget about it for now. The assassination of Prime Minister Inukai Tsuyoshi happened in Showa Year 7, by the way, not Showa Year 5.”  
  
“Wh—” Hanamaki frowns, looks back down at his essay, sees his mistake, and then grabs his eraser, grumbling, “ _Dammit_.”  
  
They don’t bring it up again for a while.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The staff at school have an elaborate sort of detention system for Matsukawa.  
  
He’s given a clear pass if he’s late because he’s calming the river levels or rescuing people who have fallen in, in more extreme cases. But Matsukawa’s lateness often comes from less urgent matters, like all the retrieval requests he gets along the way to school, if he’s not retrieving said items themselves. His homeroom teachers have actually set up a stamp card of sorts for him, which he keeps in his wallet—a fifteen-minute lunchtime detention for every four times he’s late.  
  
_We can’t play favourites,_ they tell him, apologetically. They know he tries his best. They usually let him out before the fifteen minutes is up, anyway.  
  
“I fail to see how any of that is fair,” says Hanamaki flatly after Matsukawa joins him, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi on the school rooftop after one such detention.  
  
“Well, if they let me be late as often as I wanted, I might end up abusing the system,” says Matsukawa. He opens his bento and digs right into the pieces of sliced beef, continuing in between mouthfuls, “And I guess retrieving stuff isn’t urgent, and it technically isn’t school-related, so that makes it personal business, which I shouldn’t be letting cut into school time anyway, so…” He shrugs.  
  
“The wisdom of a river god,” Hanamaki deadpans.  
  
“Dude, you have got to start turning people down,” Iwaizumi tells Matsukawa, frowning. “I didn’t realise it was so bad, or I wouldn’t have asked you to get _my_ volleyball back last week.”  
  
“Same here,” says Oikawa, wincing. “For all the times I’ve bothered you about it.”  
  
“It’s fine,” says Matsukawa, picking through his vegetables. “I don’t mind it. Detention’s only fifteen minutes. Less, usually. But hey, If you want to make it up to me, you can give me one of your apple bunnies, Iwaizumi. And Oikawa, I’ll take a piece of fried chicken from yours. Consider them offerings.”  
  
He’s half-joking. Hanamaki looks away, now smiling a little, but Iwaizumi and Oikawa both look down at their respective bento boxes, and with huffs of laughter, they hand an apple bunny and a large piece of fried chicken over.  
  
Even without asking as a joke, they aren’t the only ones to readily give things to Matsukawa. Almost every day, he’ll find a handful of gratitude snacks and small presents from other students at school crammed into his shoe locker whenever favours are done. It has gotten to a point where Hanamaki carries around spare plastic bags just so Matsukawa has an easier time holding them.  
  
“Offerings,” Matsukawa would say again and again, each time with an easy grin. Today, he pushes aside two strawberry-flavoured Giant Caplicos so he can get to his shoes.  
  
(Matsukawa doesn’t like Caplicos, Hanamaki remembers as he watches him. He knows him well enough to know this; they’re too sweet for his tastes.)  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Detentions are the easy part.  
  
It’s about half an hour until the end of volleyball training one day, and the club members are playing short practice matches amongst themselves. The starting members are mixed with the usual benchwarmers and have been playing several excellent rallies back and forth, when Iwaizumi slams a spike past two of the other side’s middle blockers, and everyone suddenly realises that really should have been a three-man block.  
  
“Where’s Matsukawa?” Iwaizumi asks, confused at his easy point.  
  
He was nowhere to be seen. It seemed that sometime in the excitement of the match, Matsukawa had rocketed off, out of the gym, without anyone noticing.  
  
“He’s probably got river god business to take care of,” says Oikawa. “Let’s continue, guys! Watacchi, please stay on as libero until he comes back.”  
  
“Got it!”  
  
And so, they play on without him until they finish the set ten minutes later, and Matsukawa returns right at the end, out of breath.  
  
“Sorry, someone—”  
  
“—fell into the river,” Oikawa and Iwaizumi finish for him in perfect unison.  
  
“Don’t worry about it, Mattsun,” Oikawa adds, cuffing him over the shoulder good-naturedly. “And good job helping them. You wanna go on home first?”  
  
“Nah, I’m good to continue,” Matsukawa wheezes. “Just give me a moment.”  
  
“Everyone! Take a three minute break!” Iwaizumi calls out, clapping his hands sharply. Hanamaki grabs Matsukawa’s collar, hauls him off to a bench towards the back of the gymnasium, and shoves a water bottle at him, which Matsukawa takes gratefully.  
  
“There’s something ironic about giving a river god a drink of water, don’t you think?”  
  
“ _Hanamaki_.” Matsukawa pulls the bottle from his mouth to throw him an exasperated look, but when he can’t hide the little grin on his face, he looks away. Hanamaki grins back.  
  
“I’m just saying. Was everything okay? I mean, you came back pretty quickly, I think, so it couldn’t have been all that bad…”  
  
“Yeah, it was fine. It was some guy on his way home, he was looking at his phone and wasn’t watching where he was going, and slipped. Turns out, he was a pretty strong swimmer and probably didn’t really need my help.” Matsukawa shrugged. Hanamaki nudges him.  
  
“But it doesn’t help to be too careful?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Matsukawa. He sighs a little, tiredly, and watches Oikawa and Iwaizumi wrestle for a bottle that Oikawa’s gleefully keeping away. “It’s good to be careful. Uh… were the others mad I just left without saying anything?”  
  
“Of course not. We all know how hard it can be for you. And anyway, you wouldn’t leave unless it was important; everyone knows that. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
Matsukawa just takes another sip of water.  
  
Luckily, the more urgent incidents like these are rare, and so far, they’ve never coincided with practise matches against other schools, or even worse, during a tournament.  
  
But if it happened during an important match, would Matsukawa be unable to focus, if they were too far away for him to get to the river in time? They could simply replace him with another team member, but if he was distracted, would he bring the team down? It’s not something that ever gets brought up, but it lingers in the back of everyone’s minds, and there is an unspoken guilt that hangs around too: _how could they think about volleyball when a person’s life might be in danger?_  
  
_Matsukawa must think about this a lot,_ Hanamaki realises. How could he not?  
  
He watches as Matsukawa wordlessly puts his bottle down, pushes himself off the bench, and begins making his way back onto the section of the court they had been playing on. The easy elegance he usually carries is absent; he looks tired, as much as he tries to hide it in the way he laughs and protests when Iwaizumi grabs him in a playful headlock, and when Oikawa ruffles his hair.  
  
Hanamaki stands from the bench and moves to join them. As his teammates assume their positions and prepare to play another set, he presses his hand against Matsukawa’s back, just briefly, and moves to take his spot on the opposite side of the net. He meets his gaze right as Mizoguchi-san blows the whistle for them to begin; Matsukawa’s expression is hard to read, but the small, warm, grateful smile he gives to Hanamaki says more than enough.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Retrieving objects from the river without any divine powers is harder than it sounds.  
  
Hanamaki is knee-deep in one section of the river, clutching a large stick, and scowling at three ping-pong balls that are bobbing up and down in the water as though mocking him, and honestly, who the _hell_ has such nerve and _idiocy_ to throw not just _one_ but _three_ freaking _ping-pong balls_ in so casually?  
  
After seeing Matsukawa get another lunchtime detention today, Hanamaki had been determined to help out his friend a little, but the varying items in the river seem just as determined to give him a hard time about it. After twenty minutes of struggling, and with an increasingly wet uniform, Hanamaki had only been able to retrieve a battered-looking soccer ball, a tennis ball, and a single Converse sneaker that he’s having second thoughts about picking up. He’s glaring daggers at everything and trying to think about how to go about this task, when suddenly, the water around Hanamaki and the items stills whilst continuing to flow everywhere else. Hanamaki blinks in surprise before realising what has happened, and turns around and—  
  
“What are you doing?” Matsukawa asks, standing on footpath alongside the river, one hand on his hip and the other holding a large mesh ball bag. He is wearing his sports uniform, and looks relaxed and bemused. Hanamaki gives a loud sigh.  
  
“You have one guess, jackass,” he says, deadpan.  
  
Matsukawa steps off the footpath and down the riverbank. He stands just beside the river and kneels down, holding the ball bag open and dipped into the water. The various items, some of which had sunk and now floated to the surface, bobbed towards him, arranging themselves into a neat queue—  
  
“Show off,” says Hanamaki exasperatedly.  
  
—and pile into the bag. Matsukawa pulls the drawstring closed and drags it back out of the water.  
  
“So… you were going to get them yourself?” he asks, shaking the water from the bag.  
  
“Shut up,” says Hanamaki. Grumpily, he wades out from the water and climbs back up onto the riverbank. He picks up his bag and his shoes and socks with a grimace, and begins to make his way towards the footpath, barefooted, with his uniform’s trousers legs still rolled up to his knees.  
  
“It’s really okay,” says Matsukawa, following him, and not shutting up at all. “It’s easy enough for me. You don’t need to go through the trouble to try to help.”  
  
“Don’t make me throw my socks at you.”  
  
“I don’t know what to think of you, sometimes.”  
  
“I’ve been wearing these _the whole day_ , Matsukawa.”  
  
They walk in silence for a little while. Matsukawa hoists the ball bag over his shoulder, not paying any attention to the residue water that splashes across the back of his clothes. There’s a fondness in the way he watches Hanamaki, who is still barefooted and walking huffily, and there’s also a warmth somewhere in the pit of his stomach that he can’t quite explain, but he supposes it has something to do with _gratitude_ or similar.  
  
“Hey,” says Matsukawa quietly. “Thanks.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” says Hanamaki. He still doesn’t turn around to look at him, but there’s a hint of softness in his voice that makes Matsukawa smile. He continues to follow Hanamaki along the river, up until they reach the street where they split up so Matsukawa can return to the school to drop off the ball bag, and Hanamaki can go home.  
  
When Matsukawa arrives back at that spot several minutes later, now changed into his regular school uniform, he finds Hanamaki sitting on a nearby bench, waiting for him. His shoes and socks are back on his feet, his clothes are dry, and he no longer looks cranky. In his hand is a paper bag from the nearby convenience store with two lukewarm nikuman in it. Matsukawa sits beside him, and they take one each and eat them in amicable silence.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
It’s that almost _overbearing_ sort of kindness about Matsukawa that Hanamaki can’t quite understand—why it’s so hard for him to say _no_ to people, to the countless requests from clumsy and careless students; why it’s so hard for him to admit that it’s a little more than inconvenient; why he insists that _it’s okay_ so often.  
  
He thinks for a moment what Matsukawa would be like if he were the opposite—a selfish river god who turns down all requests as though they were beneath him; one who doesn’t care whether people drown or survive in the river.  
  
A river god who abandoned people. A river god who was feared and hated by the people he walked amongst.  
  
“Nope,” Hanamaki says aloud. He can’t picture it at all.  
  
“What? I didn’t say anything,” says Matsukawa, looking at him in surprise. Hanamaki just waves his hand at him.  
  
It’s late Thursday afternoon, and they’re walking home after a tough but refreshing volleyball training session. The sky is overcast but some sun rays still manage to peek through gaps in the clouds, creating patches of soft reflections across the river’s calm surface. Hanamaki looks between it and the boy standing beside him. Now that he thinks about it honestly, it’s kind of hard to believe that someone could control rivers like Matsukawa has been doing all this time; that it’s an ordinary high school student who could wield that much power.  
  
After all, what kind of river god played volleyball and enjoyed cheese-filled steaks and was self-conscious about his uniform apparently not suiting him?  
  
Hanamaki turns away from Matsukawa so that he can’t see him fighting back a grin, but Matsukawa is distracted now. Hanamaki follows his gaze to see three red dragonflies flittering towards them. Red dragonflies are a rare enough sight here, but for there to be _three_ … Matsukawa smiles at them warmly, as though greeting old friends. The largest dragonfly lands on his shoulder, and when Matsukawa offers it his finger, it climbs on, crawls over to the back of his hand, and sits there fearlessly.  
  
“Is this why animals like you so much?” says Hanamaki, staring at it. “Some godly ability to make them follow you around?”  
  
“Are you still sore about that time Choco-chan ran away from you and went to me instead?”  
  
“She _hit_ me with her _tail!_ I thought cats hate water—they _love you._ ”  
  
“I don’t think that has anything to do with this, by the way.”  
  
“Now you’re just showing off.”  
  
Matsukawa grins. “Yeah, I am. But hey, if it makes you feel any better, fish don’t really like me. I think I mess around with their environment too much.”  
  
Hanamaki squints at him and says with incredible dryness in his voice, “I don’t what I’ll do with this piece of information, but I’ll use it to its fullest potential.”  
  
“Glad to help.”  
  
The large red dragonfly looks up at Hanamaki and gives an indignant flick of its wings when he jostles Matsukawa.  
  
“Oh, sorry,” says Hanamaki hastily. Then again, could dragonflies understand him?  
  
“It’s okay,” says Matsukawa softly to the dragonfly. “He’s a friend; he’s just playing around.”  
  
The dragonfly flicks its wings again and turns to look ahead, away from Hanamaki. Bewildered, Hanamaki looks from it to Matsukawa, and then sighs.  
  
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. Matsukawa snickers.  
  
His smile is warm, is Hanamaki’s next thought, which startles him. He’s always known this, but beside the nearby constantly-picturesque riverscape, it seems to hit Hanamaki with all the force of a speeding train. He tears his gaze away and gnaws on the inside of his cheek as he feels his face heat up a little. He chances a look at Matsukawa again, but Matsukawa is watching one of the other smaller red dragonflies that’s hovering around.  
  
“What did you look like as a river god?” Hanamaki asks. Did he look like he does right now, with that same easy elegance and that warm smile, or was he completely unrecognisable from the boy Hanamaki had known since their first day of high school?  
  
“Like a river. No, I’m kidding.”  
  
“Fucking smartass. Hey, wow, I just swore at a river god.”  
  
“You’re only realising that _now?_ You do that a lot anyway, you know?”  
  
“Seriously, though,” says Hanamaki, “I’m curious. What did you look like?”  
  
“I’m curious too.”  
  
“Oh… you don’t remember?”  
  
Matsukawa shakes his head. “Weird, isn’t it? Of all the things to forget—where I was exiled from, and even my own damn face.”  
  
“Maybe it’s like…” Hanamaki waves his hands vaguely, “an abstract spiritual thing where gods don’t actually have _faces_ but we as _humans_ , because we’re so set on things having a _form_ and something we can _visualise_ , we insist on giving spiritual beings things like a _face_ and—”  
  
Matsukawa claps his free hand over Hanamaki’s mouth, laughing. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”  
  
“Nah,” says Hanamaki, swatting him away. “I made it up just then.”  
  
“Incredible.” A long pause, and then, quietly, “You might be right, though.”  
  
“It bothers you a lot, huh?” says Hanamaki.  
  
“More than I like to admit. It just keeps reminding me that I’m not _there_ anymore—wherever _there_ is. Home? I don’t know. It’s weird. I get confused.” Matsukawa scuffs the ground with his foot restlessly.  
  
“The… whole thing about you being the river god,” says Hanamaki, slowly now. “What if you let that all go, one day?”  
  
Hanamaki sees Matsukawa stiffen a little, though he tries not to show any expression on his face. But they’ve known each other long enough for Hanamaki to recognise something in the way Matsukawa’s jaw tenses a little and his mouth sets in a line. These, added to the lack of reaction and surprise, says that Matsukawa’s thought about this before; it’s not out-of-the-blue at all.  
  
“I just wonder,” Hanamaki continues, hesitant, “if it might not be a bad thing.”  
  
Matsukawa meets his eyes. As they stare at each other for a moment, Hanamaki feels a slight swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks _this must be what the rush of the river feels like._  
  
“What would you do, if you were me?”  
  
Hanamaki looks taken aback at his question. “I can’t answer that,” he says. “I’ve never been a god. I wouldn’t know.”  
  
Matsukawa drops his gaze. “I guess.”  
  
They share a brief, but heavy silence. The expression on Matsukawa’s face is hard to read. Hanamaki replays his words and searches for as many clues as he can, and…  
  
The other two dragonflies land on Matsukawa’s arm for just a moment before flying off again. The third dragonfly on the back of Matsukawa’s hand flicks its wings as it and Matsukawa watch them go.  
  
_Oh_.  
  
“Are you lonely, river god?” Hanamaki asks quietly.  
  
They stop walking. Matsukawa glances at him again. Hesitates. His eyes linger for half a second too long, and when he smiles, Hanamaki can see that it’s strained, and knows he’s trying—and failing—to play it off as a joke.  
  
“That’s such a human thing to ask,” Matsukawa muses as he looks away, over the river and the subdued afternoon sunlight reflecting off its surface.  
  
“Well, I _am_ human,” says Hanamaki. “And… so are—”  
  
“So am I,” says Matsukawa, voice soft. Something changes in his expression. As incredible as he is, as powerful as he is, at this moment, Hanamaki’s not sure he’s ever seen him look so vulnerable before.  
  
“Matsukawa—”  
  
“I am not the river god,” says Matsukawa. “Not anymore.” It’s a cold sort of realisation, and there’s something a little like heartbreak in his voice—and what sort of god has his heart broken? Hanamaki feels an urge to reach out to Matsukawa and offer… what, reassurance? Comfort? How?  
  
“I’m sorry,” is all he says, and he is.  
  
“Thank you,” says Matsukawa.  
  
The red dragonfly on the back of his hand takes flight.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
There’s a restlessness about Matsukawa over the next few weeks. The principal and vice-principal each ask him to calm the river down on two respective occasions, which he does, but it doesn’t escape Hanamaki that he looks more and more discontent each time. His easy smiles when he accepts retrieval requests look a little strained, and Hanamaki has to fight back the urge to step in and tell the other students to back off.  
  
“You know, I would totally be okay being the bad guy and scaring them away,” he tells Matsukawa flatly as they walk to volleyball training together.  
  
“It’s fine,” says Matsukawa for what’s probably the thousandth time. “I don’t mind.” He’s smiling; his smiles don’t seem so strained around Hanamaki.  
  
“Well, they could at least _stop_ giving you sweets as thanks. You keep giving them to _me_ , and whenever I take them home and my parents see them, they think I’m really popular at school and that I get heaps of gifts from fans, like Oikawa does. Every time I tell them that they’re wrong—” A grin tugs at Hanamaki’s mouth when Matsukawa starts laughing, “—they think I’m just being modest, and they’re all proud of me for being _popular_ but _humble_ , and _oh! We raised Takahiro so well! He’s going to be such a wonderful husband someday!_ I’m telling you, it’s a _really difficult_ situation for me!”  
  
Matsukawa has stopped walking, hunched over in his laughter. He gives a weak “ _nooo, I can’t_ ” in protest when Hanamaki grabs him in a loose headlock.  
  
“It’s all because of you, you troublemaker,” says Hanamaki, grinding his knuckles against Matsukawa’s scalp. “Always finding it hard to say no to people who need a hand, never wanting to disappoint them, never putting time aside to figure out what you want. I can’t even be sarcastic and joke about you being selfish. You’re ruining my comedic genius, you know that?”  
  
“ _Get off me, jackass!”_  
  
Matsukawa’s restlessness aside, Hanamaki had been determined to make him laugh more ever since their conversation about possibly giving up his role as river god. Hanamaki had been afraid that it had put a strain on their friendship, given that he had more or less gone about it in the manner of someone pulling a healing wound open. They’ve always been reasonably honest with each other, but that conversation had been the most _intimate_ one they had ever had, and Hanamaki felt that you couldn’t really have that sort of talk with someone without something changing for better or worse. But there hadn’t been any strain, and Hanamaki was more than happy to be proven to be wrong; in fact, it seems to have _helped_ , and if anything, they seem closer than before. He’s glad for that too.  
  
(Sometimes when he remembers the look of heartbreak on Matsukawa’s face, he feels a little more than helpless.)  
  
“What am I gonna do with you, Matsukawa?”  
  
“You can let me go!”  
  
“But where’s the fun in that?”  
  
Matsukawa forces himself to stand up straight, pulling Hanamaki off-balance. They elbow each other playfully, and there’s something really nice about sharing this silliness between the two of them, especially given how distracted and restless Matsukawa had been.  
  
Hanamaki still doesn’t let go of him, instead adjusting his arm so that it’s a little more comfortably slung around Matsukawa’s neck. At some point, Matsukawa has clutched onto a handful of Hanamaki’s jacket, near his waist, and for whatever reason, there’s a little swooping sensation in Hanamaki’s stomach when he realises this, but he pushes the thought away as they approach the gymnasium.  
  
Some teammates give them funny looks when they enter, but no one says anything. Hanamaki and Matsukawa have to release each other eventually in order to get changed, and when they do, it doesn’t escape Hanamaki’s attention that there’s a feeling of _disappointment_ that he doesn’t understand, but also doesn’t really have time to think about.  
  
It’s an odd training session. They go through their drills and practice sets, but throughout training, some of their juniors (especially Kindaichi) appear to be blushing violently whenever they see Matsukawa and Hanamaki stand close to each other. Yahaba keeps spilling water from his water bottle down his shirt front during their drink breaks. Oikawa’s not much better; he steadfastly avoids looking at Matsukawa and Hanamaki but also keeps sneaking glances at them when he thinks they aren’t looking, and then keeps breaking out into wide grins, and looks stupidly _happy_ for some reason. It’s kind of a miracle that no one gets injured.  
  
It’s only at the very end of the training session that they find out what it’s all about. As their juniors say their goodbyes for the day, some of them hastily add a whispered “ _congratulations_ ” and then high-tail it out of there. They all mumble it towards the floor though, so it’s hard to tell who the well-wishes were aimed at. Had Iwaizumi or Oikawa won an award of some sort?  
  
The third years are loitering downstairs and waiting for Oikawa to finish locking up, when Iwaizumi finally turns to Hanamaki and Matsukawa.  
  
“So,” he says slowly, “you’re both nightmares and therefore perfect for each other, so congratulations, but when did you two start dating? Was it just today?”  
  
There is a stunned silence as they stare at him.  
  
“Dating?” Hanamaki repeats blankly.  
  
“Us?” Matsukawa adds, equally blankly.  
  
“You’re…” says Iwaizumi, quickly realising his mistake, “you’re not… oh. Uh. Never mind. Sorry for assuming. I’ll leave you two to… I mean, I’ll just… go now. See you tomorrow.”  
  
And he turns his heel and briskly power-walks away, leaving Matsukawa and Hanamaki to stare after him, bewildered. Hanamaki opens his mouth, ready to cuss for no real good reason, when he and Matsukawa feel a heavy clap on their shoulders, making them jump. They turn to see Oikawa, who is beaming at them.  
  
“I’m really, _really_ happy for you both!” he chirps. “Take care of each other, hey? I’ll see you guys tomorrow! _Wait for me, Iwa-chaaan!_ ” And then he skips ( _skips_ ) after him, happily whistling what sounds like an old love song, but it’s hard to tell because it’s a bit off-key.  
  
There is a long moment of silence.  
  
“Oh,” says Matsukawa at last.  
  
“Oh, man,” says Hanamaki.  
  
“Wow.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
It’s suddenly very hard to look at each other. Neither have moved from their spots.  
  
“We should, uh,” says Hanamaki, “start heading off.”  
  
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”  
  
And they do, slowly, whilst staring hard at the ground, their warm faces half-buried into the collars of their sports jackets, and the weight of the conversation heavy in the air.  
  
They have so much to say, but neither know how to begin. They could trash-talk Iwaizumi and Oikawa for putting them in this situation (it’s not as much fun to blame their juniors) and then laugh it off, because that’s always an easy conversation topic, but every passing second of silence makes it harder and harder to treat it as joke anymore. And anyway, it seems dishonest, and they had been thrown too far and too suddenly into the deep end to be dishonest with each other now.  
  
( _Dating_.)  
  
(Hanamaki thinks about that swooping sensation he had felt when Matsukawa held onto him, and that feeling of disappointment when he let go. He thinks about all those hours spent together, talking about anything and everything; watching _Matsukawa, the river god,_ almost out of reach but not quite; being around _Matsukawa, the high school student_ , studying together and eating together and playing volleyball together, and it was so easy to forget that he could control the rivers; that moment of _heartbreak_ and that urge to reach out to him, mostly for Matsukawa’s benefit, but partially for Hanamaki’s too, as if to say _don’t go, don’t forget me, hey, I’m right here, I’ll piece your heart back together if you want me to, I’m sorry_.)  
  
(It was so, so obvious.)  
  
(But how do you tell a river god that you love him?)  
  
As with almost every day, they walk alongside the river on their way home. The gold light of the late afternoon sunset reflects off its surface, bright, and Hanamaki takes this opportunity to forget the current silence, and just appreciate the familiar but welcome view—for just a moment. Only for a moment.  
  
“It’s really nice,” he says absently, eyes tracing the riverscape before him.  
  
Matsukawa makes a soft humming noise. “If I agree, does that make me a total narcissist?”  
  
There’s a pause. Hanamaki turns to finally stare at him. Matsukawa buries his face deeper into his jacket’s collar in a vain attempt to hide his growing grin.  
  
Hanamaki snorts and starts laughing. Matsukawa joins him two seconds later. It’s actually not that funny, but at that moment, with the tension shattering into pieces in the late afternoon breeze, it’s just what they both need, and when they finally look at each other, with Matsukawa’s face lit up with laughter and mixed with an undeniable fondness, Hanamaki feels a familiar swooping, _rushing_ sensation in his stomach.  
  
( _Like a river._ )  
  
They also stare at each other for a little too long, and then look away a little too quickly when they realise, like embarrassed junior high school kids trying to deal with a first crush. It’s _painfully_ obvious, and equal amounts frustrating and funny.  
  
“Fuck,” says Matsukawa with another small laugh after they calm down. He stretches his hands up towards the sky and sighs. “I hate this.”  
  
With a slight smile, Hanamaki slows down a pace so he falls back a little and asks, scuffing his shoe against the ground, “What do you hate?”  
  
“This… I don’t know. This lack of communication?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s pretty shit,” Hanamaki agrees.  
  
“It’s really easy to talk to you, and I’ve always liked that,” says Matsukawa. “Always. So I hate this… lack of talking.”  
  
Hanamaki can’t see Matsukawa’s face, but he thinks he can picture his frustrated smile, like he’s trying hard to hold onto the faintest chance that he can still play it all off as a joke. Right now, they both know better than to try, though.  
  
“I think that,” says Hanamaki slowly, tentatively, “us not being able to talk about this… kind of says a lot already.”  
  
The river looks better than _nice_ against the warm palette of the late afternoon sun and sky, but for Hanamaki, _beautiful_ has never seemed like the right word for it. It’s not something he thinks about too often, but he’d like to find the right word, one day. (But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe he’s just distracting himself from the issue at hand. He wonders how much of this is a defence mechanism, and how much of it is due to the both of them simply being clueless dumbasses.)  
  
In their silence, he looks from the river to Matsukawa in front of him—his broad shoulders, his slightly hunched back, his hands slipped into his pockets and elbows tucked closely by his sides, his head bowed from staring down at the ground. He’s one of the tallest people Hanamaki knows, but at this moment, he looks small, somehow. Hanamaki wonders if all gods could be humbled by something as seemingly trivial as a lack of communication or as arguably human as romantic feelings—wonders how much of all this is _Matsukawa, the river god_ , and how much is _Matsukawa, the high school student._  
  
“You do a lot for me,” says Matsukawa quietly at last, “and you never ask for anything.”  
  
“I made you buy me a cream puff the other day because I didn’t have loose change and I didn’t want to break my thousand-yen note.”  
  
Matsukawa stops walking, tilts his head back to stare up into the sky again, and gives a huge, thoroughly exasperated (but exaggerated) sigh; Hanamaki looks away to laugh again.  
  
“You know what I mean, dumbass,” says Matsukawa, pained.  
  
“Do I? I don’t know if I do.”  
  
“I was going to go on a whole spiel about how you’re always looking out for me, and how I’m really grateful, and how I’ve liked you since last year and wanted to tell you eventually— _without_ Iwaizumi or Oikawa interfering, damn—but you’ve ruined the moment. So… there’s that.”  
  
Hanamaki steps up behind him and tilts his head down to press his forehead against the back of Matsukawa’s right shoulder.  
  
“For me,” he says quietly, “I think I’ve always liked you. Probably from the start, but I’m not sure. It’s kind of blurry. I haven’t really thought too much about it.”  
  
He hears Matsukawa exhale softly, feels the tension drain from his shoulders and back, feels his relief.  
  
“This is okay, right?” says Matsukawa.  
  
“It’s okay for me, if it’s okay for you,” Hanamaki answers.  
  
“It definitely is,” says Matsukawa.  
  
“Nice. Okay, hold my hand.”  
  
“Geez, take me out to dinner first, Hanamaki.”  
  
“Hold my hand, jackass.”  
  
He feels Matsukawa laugh, and then he takes his hand from his pocket.  
  
“Okay,” says Hanamaki, “if we’re gonna try this dating thing, I’m gonna hold your hand, okay? Don’t panic.”  
  
“Hanamaki, oh my god.”  
  
“I’m reaching for your hand now, so stay calm.”  
  
Matsukawa steps away from him and Hanamaki stumbles forward a little. They turn to look at each other, and Hanamaki again sees that fondness, mixed with the laughter on Matsukawa’s face—again, feels a familiar swooping, rushing sensation, only this time, it’s less _river-like_ , and more I _’ve told him and everything is very, very okay._  
  
Alongside the indescribable river scenery, they lean on each other, tired with relief, and lace their fingers together with an almost inexplicable ease, like they’ve done it a hundred times before. Hanamaki stores this away in his mind, a precious memory.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Over the next two weeks, Hanamaki notices new small things about Matsukawa, but has to admit to himself that half of his thoughts probably stem a little too much in Matsukawa's connection to rivers.  
  
When Matsukawa leans over to whisper a joke in Hanamaki's ear, Hanamaki thinks of the sound of rivers first—the rushing, hissing flow of water—before it eases into Matsukawa's soft, low voice. When they’re sharing a quiet moment together and Matsukawa’s resting his head on Hanamaki’s shoulder, Hanamaki likes running his fingers down the back of Matsukawa's hand, tracing the veins, somehow more river-like than other people’s. Matsukawa’s family name doesn’t help, either.  
  
(“But Oikawa has _river_ in his family name too.”  
  
“Stop. Don’t. You’re making this weird. Stop.”)  
  
He supposes it’s all somewhat romantic and poetic in its own way, but it’s also kind of frustrating, not being able to disconnect _Matsukawa_ and _rivers_ as much as he’d like, as though Hanamaki is a little too aware of it sometimes, which seems unfair on Matsukawa, given his restlessness. Sometimes, Hanamaki wonders if he’d have this much trouble if Matsukawa was a different god.  
  
“If you could be the god of anything else, what would you choose?” Hanamaki asks suddenly on the way home one day. Matsukawa laughs. There's a river-like sound in his laughs, Hanamaki realises in a slight daze. It doesn’t quite make sense, whilst simultaneously making _sense_.  
  
“I can't do that," says Matsukawa, grinning. “I have my bias, it’s not gonna work.”  
  
“Killjoy.” Hanamaki jostles him affectionately.  
  
“What about you? What would you choose?”  
  
“Hmm... I guess fire? Or maybe lightning. They seem pretty cool and handy. Hey, what was the fire god like?”  
  
“He was…” The smile fades from Matsukawa's face, and he scratches the back of his neck, frowning. “Actually, I don't remember that either.”  
  
Hanamaki waves his hand vaguely. “Well, I mean… you don’t remember what _you_ used to look like, so it kinda makes sense you wouldn’t remember the fire god, right?”  
  
“It does,” says Matsukawa slowly. “It’s just… there’s _so much_ that I don't remember. Every time I try, it just seems to slip away, and it’s a weird feeling. Sometimes I start to think, hey, what if this is all actually bullshit and I’m just making it up?”  
  
“You _literally_ lowered the river level last week. I _watched_ you do it,” Hanamaki points out. Matsukawa gives him a small smile but doesn’t reply. Hanamaki nudges him again. “But hey, if you want me to shut up and stop asking so many questions, just say so, okay? I get curious, but let me know if it gets too much.”  
  
But Matsukawa shakes his head. “I would've told you already if it got annoying. It's not a bad thing. It's made me think a lot.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I can't really explain it. But I think I'm... I need to stop running away. I keep holding onto my past life, but I'm not _there_ anymore. I'm _here_. I have my own life _here_ , with things I _do_ remember, and I'm not—”  
  
He stops when Hanamaki reaches out and touches the back of his hand. Matsukawa swallows hard and laces their fingers together. His shoulders sag a little.  
  
“Do you remember,” he says, “ages ago, when I told you that I didn’t remember where I’d been exiled from?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“And then later, you told me that letting go of it all might not be a bad thing?”  
  
“I remember,” says Hanamaki. He squeezes his hand and asks quietly, “Are you thinking that it’s time?”  
  
“I think… it’ll be soon,” says Matsukawa. His expression is uneasy, nervous, scared. “Sooner rather than later, anyway. It’s just… it feels like such a big step to take.”  
  
Hanamaki leans in towards him and head-butts his forehead very lightly.  
  
“Take your time, if you want to figure things out,” he says. “It'll be okay.”  
  
“I think that’s kind of the problem,” says Matsukawa. “I feel like I've been taking my time my whole life. But I'm not _immortal_ anymore; I don’t _have_ a lot of time. I’ll live and die as a human. There’s nothing godly about that.”  
  
“Is that a bad thing, though?” asks Hanamaki. Matsukawa’s eyes flicker towards him, and he seems to run their words through his mind for a moment, before the troubled look on his face eases, and his expression softens.  
  
“Maybe not,” he says.  
  
( _Are you lonely, river god?_ )  
  
“Do you want to come over for a bit?” asks Hanamaki. “My parents keep asking about you and telling me to bring you over to say hello. We can do some homework… or avoid it. We can watch the latest _Gintama_ episode. Play games.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Matsukawa quietly. “Yeah, I’d like that.” Hanamaki squeezes his hand slightly, reassuringly.  
  
As they walk, a red dragonfly glides over to rest on Matsukawa’s shoulder for just a second before flying off again. They’ve been doing that often recently, as though they, too, know that it’s almost time.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
( _and indeed, there will be time._ )

 

  


* * *

 

 

  
Two days later, they’re walking down one of the school corridors during lunchtime, discussing the best way to convince Mizoguchi-san to shave off that horrible soul patch he’s been trying to grow recently without hurting his feelings and without anyone getting booted off the volleyball team, when—  
  
“Matsukawa-kun?”  
  
They stop and turn to see the vice-principal poke his head out from his office.  
  
“Sensei,” says Matsukawa, ever-polite.  
  
“Sorry to bother you again, but the mayor called a few minutes ago and wanted to know if you could do something about the river overflowing again. It seems to be happening a lot lately, doesn’t it?” He frowns thoughtfully.  
  
“I’ll… have a look after school today,” Matsukawa promises.  
  
“I’m sorry we ask this of you so often.”  
  
“It’s not a problem.”  
  
“Thank you very much.”  
  
“I’ll go with you,” says Hanamaki after the vice-principal has retreated back into his office, and they continue walking. Matsukawa just gives him a small, tired smile, but he can’t hide how discontent he looks.  
  
The afternoon crawls by. Hanamaki spends his classes feeling so restless that he entertains the idea of just jumping up and running outside in the middle of lessons, but his parents have taught him much better than that, and anyway, if he did run out, he’d land himself in detention, which would mean he wouldn’t be able to accompany Matsukawa to the river as promised.  
  
The final bell finally sounds. Hanamaki’s sigh of relief is hidden by the shuffling of books and paper and the scraping of chairs by his classmates around him. He gathers his belongings, gathers his bag, and then makes his way over to Matsukawa’s classroom, where he pokes his head through the door. Matsukawa is sitting at his desk, playing a game on his phone. Hanamaki slides into the seat in front of his table, and Matsukawa looks up and smiles.  
  
“Let me pass these levels first, and then we can go,” he says. “There shouldn’t be too many people around the river then.” Matsukawa never likes lowering the river levels when there’s an audience—it makes him too self-conscious. More than once, Hanamaki can’t help but feel a little pleased that he’s an exception.  
  
“Sure,” says Hanamaki. He leans onto Matsukawa’s desk and pillows his head on his arms and shuts his eyes. “I’ll take a nap. Wake me up when you’re ready.” He feels Matsukawa lean on him, a light and warm weight, and after a few minutes, he dozes off to the soft sound of game music coming from Matsukawa’s phone.  
  
It’s at least half an hour later when Matsukawa finally shakes him awake.  
  
“You don’t have to come with me,” he says.  
  
Hanamaki yawns. “Yeah, sure, you tell me that now, after we’ve been waiting all this time.” When Matsukawa cringes at him, Hanamaki cuffs his arm and grins sleepily. “It’s fine, doofus. Are you ready?”  
  
Matsukawa doesn’t reply, but they stand and begin making their way out of the school, towards the river.  
  
With the sky a little clearer now after a day of constant rain, the river looks as picturesque as ever with the reflections from the afternoon sun dancing off the rushing surface. But Hanamaki is paying more attention to Matsukawa: he’s walking slowly, hanging back a little as they reach the riverside. The expression on Matsukawa’s face says that he’d rather be anywhere but here. Everything about him spells hesitation, like he wishes he could run away, like he wishes he had the power to stop time instead.  
  
Hanamaki drops his bag onto the footpath, pulls off his shoes and socks gracelessly and tosses them aside, and then rolls up the legs of his trousers until they sit just above his knees.  
  
“Hanamaki—” Matsukawa begins. Hanamaki gingerly walks down the riverbank, stops beside the water for a moment, and then slowly steps in.  
  
The water immediately stills around his feet, whilst continuing to rush everywhere else around him. He wades in a little more until the water reaches his mid-calf, and then he turns and looks up at Matsukawa. Matsukawa looks back at him exasperatedly.  
  
He caves after a moment. He drops his own bag and kicks off his own shoes and socks, and steps into the water with ease, like it’s familiar, like it’s home. As he wades out towards Hanamaki, Hanamaki offers his hands and Matsukawa takes them as though that, too, is as familiar as home. The water is cold at their feet and the rushing river around them is loud.  
  
After a handful of seconds, it quietens. The river calms, and the water level drops until their feet are visible again, and it slowly recedes from the riverbank. They watch the subsiding water.  
  
“I really can’t keep doing this, can I?” says Matsukawa, more to himself than to Hanamaki.  
  
“I think that’ll be up to you,” says Hanamaki.  
  
But they both know.  
  
Matsukawa looks out and continues staring over the river’s surface, tracing every minute detail as though afraid he’ll forget what it looks like if he so much as blinks. There’s a vulnerability about him that reminds Hanamaki of that day Matsukawa fully realised that he was no longer the river god—he looks a little older, somehow; a little more tired, and filled with a great reluctance to finally, finally, finally say goodbye.  
  
Matsukawa is crying, Hanamaki notices with start. He watches as he closes his eyes and bows his head. Tears flow down his face, and it strikes Hanamaki how undeniably human he looks. How undeniably human he _is_.  
  
How lonely it must be, to be a mortal god.  
  
Hanamaki leans forward until their foreheads are touching, and he, too, closes his eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Hanamaki, “Matsukawa.”  
  
Matsukawa says nothing, but the way his hands tighten a little around Hanamaki’s own says plenty.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
After a while, they collect their shoes and socks, and sling their bags over their shoulders, and, hand-in-hand, walk barefooted back up to the footpath running alongside the river and down the street until the water dries from their skin.  
  
The river is peaceful and calm.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
“Matsukawa-kun, there you are,” says the vice-principal a few days later when they pass him in one of the school corridors. “I’m sorry to bother you, but the mayor says that the river is overflowing again, and apparently it’s quite bad. The rain has been so heavy lately. Do you think you could…?”  
  
Matsukawa pauses, hesitates this time, and then says, “I can do that after school today, but… I think this will have to be the last time. I’m sorry, sensei; the volleyball team has the Spring High coming up, and we really want to make the Nationals. And I need to focus on my exams, and then after all that, I’ll have university to think about. I want to get into Tohoku Uni, so…”  
  
For the first since Hanamaki met him, he realises just how much Matsukawa looks every bit like a high school boy; nothing divine or otherworldly about him, nothing to set him apart from the thousands of students anywhere else. Not a god—just a high schooler who was quiet sometimes but who also knew how to joke and play-fight; who sometimes came off as intimidating at first glance, but was reliable and kind when it mattered; who had his quirks and habits like any high schooler did; who was worried about his studies and extracurricular obligations, like an ordinary student.  
  
The vice-principal looks surprised for a moment, as though he, too, might’ve finally realised for the first time what Hanamaki was thinking, and Hanamaki holds his breath. But then the vice-principal’s face eases into a small smile, and he nods. “I understand. I’ll let the mayor know. Thank you for all your help, Matsukawa-kun.”  
  
Matsukawa bows, deep.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Matsukawa goes to the river by himself that afternoon. Hanamaki loiters around outside the nearby convenience store, sitting on a bench as he waits for him; being by the river with him now would feel as though he’s intruding on a private moment.  
  
He’s getting kind of bored, though. The peach Gari Gari Kun popsicle he had bought for himself is long gone. He’s already read two chapters of the novel he’s meant to be reading for his Japanese literature essay. Social media is quiet this time of day, and anyway, his phone’s battery is sitting on its last five percent, so he really needs to be conserving that.  
  
He’s contemplating going back inside the convenience store just so he can stare at all the day’s pastries, when he sees Matsukawa turn the corner at the end of the block, heading towards him. His expression is hard to read, but Hanamaki supposes it’s to be expected. As Matsukawa draws close, Hanamaki holds out his hands.  
  
“Help me up. I feel like getting another Gari Gari Kun. I had peach already, so which flavour should I get this time?” he says. Matsukawa’s face softens into a smile as he takes Hanamaki’s hands and pulls him to his feet.  
  
“The offerings I gave you yesterday weren’t enough? Your dentist must love you.”  
  
“My dentist loves me because I’m charming, _Matsukawa-kun,_ and you know all about me being charming so don’t even front. And ice treats are a special category on their own,” says Hanamaki with an impatient wave of his hand. “And anyway, I was getting kind of sick of all those Giant Caplicos. I’m gonna stay away from strawberry-flavoured things for a while.”  
  
“Get the yuzu flavour Gari Gari Kun.”  
  
“Nice.”  
  
Hanamaki buys two, tossing one to Matsukawa. They tear open the wrapping as they leave the convenience store, and start heading home.  
  
“Are you okay?” Hanamaki asks quietly.  
  
“Mm,” says Matsukawa. “I think so. It feels a little better now that I’ve actually said my goodbyes, but…” He gives a non-committal shrug. Hanamaki holds out his free hand, and Matsukawa takes it. It’s something they’ve both taken to quite naturally—enjoying the feeling of their hands fitting together comfortably; the familiarity of each other’s rough and calloused skin.  
  
“You can take your time figuring it out,” says Hanamaki.  
  
“Hm… yeah…” says Matsukawa with a small smile. “Yeah, I guess I can, now.”  
  
Small as it is, it’s also the most genuine smile that Hanamaki has seen from Matsukawa for what feels like weeks now; it’s how he knows he’ll be all right.  


 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The red dragonflies don’t follow Matsukawa anymore, and become as uncommon a sight as they would be anywhere else around here.  
  
It’s been a few days since the last time he calmed the river, and he seems to notice the lack of red dragonflies at the same time as Hanamaki does on their way home after school. He squeezes his hand a little, as though searching for reassurance, and Hanamaki thinks that he would hold Matsukawa’s hand for all of eternity if that was what he wanted and needed.  
  
Hanamaki knows it won’t be the last time they walk alongside the river like this, but it feels very different, somehow. The river is relatively calm but still quite full. The weather forecast says there’s a high chance of heavy rain again over the next couple of days.  
  
“They’ve handled it overflowing before, without my help,” Matsukawa had said. “You know, before I came here. And without human sacrifices. They’ll be okay.”  
  
It would probably be some time before he believed it absolutely.  
  
“They’ll be okay,” Hanamaki echoes. “You’ll be okay too.” Matsukawa smiles a little.  
  
The caution signs alongside the river and on the bridges warning people about falling in are all new, bright, and strict with their messages. The railings are new too, and sturdier than the locals can remember in the past. The council had moved surprisingly quickly to have everything installed; Hanamaki mutters an apology to no one in particular about having called the council slack in the past. It makes Matsukawa laugh, and it’s a nice sound—a little less _river-like_ , a little more _Matsukawa_.  
  
At their school’s most recent weekly morning assembly, the principal had informed the entire student body that Matsukawa would no longer be taking retrieval requests, and that they all needed to be responsible for their own belongings. Even after that, though, Matsukawa still received several small gifts and snacks in his locker, most of them with a thank-you note attached to them.  
  
(“I think… I’ll keep these ones,” he had said. “Your parents might have questions about your sudden decrease in popularity, though. Sorry.”  
  
“Buy me a cream puff every day, and it’ll be fine,” Hanamaki had replied with a wave of his hand.)  
  
“Yesterday, I saw a kid who had accidentally kicked her soccer ball into the river,” says Matsukawa as they walk.  
  
“Did you get it for her?” asks Hanamaki.  
  
“No. Well, I mean, I tried. It got caught in a bunch of low branches, and we found a long stick and tried to poke it out, but it just ended up getting swept away again.”  
  
“Ah, damn,” says Hanamaki. “Maybe it’ll wash up somewhere, though.”  
  
“Hope so,” says Matsukawa.  
  
“You know it’s not your fault, right?”  
  
“I do.” At Hanamaki’s disbelieving raise of his eyebrows, Matsukawa just smiles and shakes his head. “I’m trying, anyway. I’ll get there eventually.”  
  
“That’s the spirit.”  
  
They walk in comfortable silence for a little while, though Matsukawa keeps looking around, searching. Hanamaki tugs on his hand.  
  
“Hey,” he says. “You know, there’s something pretty great about finding dragonflies, especially the red ones. I guess it’s something to do with how little we see them? My mother used to say that the red ones were lucky. So, they’re like treasures, sort of?”  
  
“I guess,” says Matsukawa slowly.  
  
“And if we do manage to retrieve a ball that’s been tossed into the river or something without any supernatural intervention, I chalk that up as a victory. It’s a good feeling.”  
  
He looks up at Matsukawa, who gives him a mystified sort of smile.  
  
“What are you trying to say?” he asks.  
  
“What I mean,” says Hanamaki, “is that some things might change for you, and you might have to learn to see some things a little differently from now on, but I think that’s all okay too. There are good things to come out of it.” He pauses, and then gives a little laugh and shrugs. “Well, not that I would know. I’ve never been a god. I’ve only ever known things from one side, so—”  
  
“I’m glad you’re not a god,” says Matsukawa. “I’m really glad.”  
  
“Yeah?” Hanamaki looks at him with raised eyebrows. “I think I would’ve made a pretty cool god, though, don’t you think?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” says Matsukawa, smile widening. “If you say so.”  
  
“You’re _supposed_ to agree!” He elbows Matsukawa in the ribs, taking delight in the sound of his laughter as he parries Hanamaki away.  
  
“I can’t agree nor disagree. I really can’t,” says Matsukawa.  
  
“ _Hmph_. I guess not. Fine. Still, you could lie.”  
  
“Nope, can’t do that either. Not around you, anyway.”  
  
Surprised, Hanamaki stops and stares at him. “What the hell, that’s actually disgustingly sweet of you.”  
  
Matsukawa steadfastly avoids his eyes with a sigh. “You’re ruining the moment.”  
  
“I'm good at that.”  
  
There’s another comfortable silence, another moment of simply walking together and enjoying each other’s company, before Matsukawa speaks up again.  
  
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Thanks.”  
  
“What, for the ruining the moment?”  
  
“Don’t,” says Matsukawa. “I’m serious. I… caused you a lot of trouble for a long time. I kept coming to you with my problems and whinging about them—”  
  
“You weren’t _whinging_ , dumbass—”  
  
“—but you never complained. You just kept supporting me and telling me that things would be okay, and you let me do my own thing at my own pace. I think I really needed that.”  
  
“We’re _friends_. Well, boyfriends now, but that’s what friends _do_. It’s nothing to thank me for.”  
  
“Well, I’m doing it anyway,” says Matsukawa. “So—”  
  
“ _Issei_ —”  
  
“—thank you. I’ve never really told you. You kept looking out for me and kept trying to make me happy and… yeah. Thank you.”  
  
“You are so terrible at this.”  
  
“Ruined the moment.”  
  
They look at each other, grinning now, barely fighting back laughter.  
  
“You’re welcome,” says Hanamaki. He can’t help it; he’s smiling so hard that his face hurts a little. Matsukawa’s looking at him with a familiar undeniable fondness, but mixed with so much _more_ , indescribable just as the river had been, and in the best way.  
  
He leans in and presses a kiss to Hanamaki’s lips.


End file.
